


No More Heroes

by deathofaraven



Series: Prompt Responses [2]
Category: Fable (Video Games), Fable 2 (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, Present Tense, Prompt Response, death by fire, idk that seems like something I should warn for?, kiddie Reaver gets a horrible wake up call about Heroes, pre-Fable II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-22
Updated: 2018-04-22
Packaged: 2019-04-26 14:07:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14403744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deathofaraven/pseuds/deathofaraven
Summary: As he looked up at him, he realised he was wrong. The stories had lied to him. If this was what it meant to be a Hero, he would take no part in it. He would turn away from that path.He would never be a Hero.





	No More Heroes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Rebel_Dynasty](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rebel_Dynasty/gifts).



> Prompt: a moment frozen in time

This will be a day that changes Albion forever. Tomorrow, the newspapers in Bowerstone will be screaming for reform. For change; for an end to cruel traditions. But that is tomorrow. _Today_ , Oakvale is abuzz with excitement. They say they’ve found a Hero—the first recovered alive in a decade—and the crowd is hungry for bloodshed.

Of course, he doesn’t understand what the people around him are _really_ saying. He’s six, clinging to the arm of his eldest sister; oblivious to the looks of disgust she’s directing to the people they call neighbours. All he’s heard is the word “Hero”…like in the fables and the games he and the other children play when no adults are around. Truth be told, he’s never seen a Hero in the flesh before. In his daydreams Heroes strike an impressive figure. Gender plays no true role in these visions—to him, all Heroes are impossibly tall and muscular in a way that puts Farmer Tilley’s sons to shame. They are beautiful and wise and so frighteningly powerful that the air crackles when they’re near. Above all, they’re respected and beheld with awe.

The man they drag into the centre of town is nothing like that. He’s frail and filthy; sticky raw-red wounds spread over his bare chest and one cheek from being dragged behind a horse for some distance. His feet are cracked and bloody and, though no one seems to care, he sobs a continuous torrent of pleas for mercy. His ribs show clearly as the witchspotters tie him to a stake before the crowd. They don’t appear to care that he insists he’s not a Hero.

And the boy is terribly confused. It’s so painfully obvious to him that this man _isn’t_ a Hero. Even if he was, the boy still doesn’t understand why they’re hurting him. Then the wood beneath the stake is lit and everything becomes painfully clear in a way he’d never imagined. He’s been wrong all this time.

The smoke and screams are rising. He flinches closer to his sister, unsure what’s worse: the sounds the Not-Hero is making or the crack of the stranger’s arms dislocating as he tries and fails to flee the flames. The crowd is jeering, but he can’t make out the words—in a decade or two, when he awakens from nightmares of this exact moment, he’ll be grateful he doesn’t know; at the moment, however, the angry haze of overlapping words is terrifying.

He doesn’t know when he starts shaking. He wants to flee but he’s frozen in place. And, for a split second, it’s _not_ the Not-Hero he sees on the stake. It’s _himself_. Screaming and crying for a family that cannot save him. Because he’s _not_ normal like these other people. Because he’s never missed a shot with his slingshot. Because he’s faster than anyone else in town in a chase. Because he heals— _oh gods_ ; he heals in mere minutes what should take days. And maybe, just _maybe_ , that’s a sign he’s a Hero himself.

Maybe, one day, Oakvale will decide he deserves to be up on a stake as well.

These are thoughts he cannot put into words. What he _can_ put into words is that he’s scared. He wants to go home. He wants his sister to hold him like their mother can’t. But he can’t catch a breath to say them.

The Not-Hero has fallen silent; his body tilted against the stake at an unnatural angle. The crowd’s excitement has died as well, fading into an almost guilt-ridden silence. All he can smell is the noxious scent of charred flesh and hair.

His sister lifts him easily into her arms. He can feel her tears against the side of his face as she carries him away from the crowd. She tries to soothe him but the words don’t break through his fear.

The stories were wrong. The legends had lied to him. If this was all that being a Hero amounts to, then what is the point? He can’t stand the thought of anyone discovering he’s not like everyone else. He tells himself he’ll learn to be smarter and to master these skills. He promises himself that he will never, under any circumstances, be a Hero.

There are no Heroes now. And maybe it’s better if there never are.

**Author's Note:**

> So this is very headcanon-heavy and I'm sorry for that. I try not to post this kinda stuff when it's not an AU but this is my favourite of the responses I wrote for this prompt and I thought you might enjoy it.
> 
> I feel like Oakvale's assault against Heroes is something that gets overlooked in fanon a lot and I couldn't help but wonder how much it would hurt to secretly be a Hero during that time. To grow up with these powers you have to hide, surrounded by people that you love and that love you but would turn on you and call for your blood in an instant if they knew the truth. I feel like it would explain some of Reaver's apparent antipathy towards Heroes if that kind of environment had had an effect on him, as well as some of his fear of death. Of course, you're completely free to not like this headcanon and I understand completely if you don't. But I hope you enjoyed the ficlet regardless. ^^


End file.
